


We Have Eternity

by Harleydoll



Series: Crossroads [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Erik, Crossroads, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demon Deals, Demons, Hell, Hell Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutants, Past Child Abuse, Poor Charles, Protective Erik, Psychological Torture, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harleydoll/pseuds/Harleydoll
Summary: An unexpected meeting causes Charles to have a change of heart. Erik just wants what's best for him, but this time, it might not be enough.





	1. Year 32

**Author's Note:**

> I really just can't leave these two alone xD Doing a couple updates before I disappear again for a 4 day convention weekend! Enjoy ^___^

 

Charles loved his work. He especially loved times like this, when a serial murderer was dropped into his lap and he could watch every glorious detail of his victim's life on the panels of his soaring, arcing walls. The best part was, this man clearly loved his work as well. He was brazenly unrepentant when Charles ripped into his memories, and cheerfully narrated the clip Charles chose of a young woman being flayed alive, an inch of skin at a time. He shrugged off the teenage boy he'd buried alive, calling it boring and unoriginal, and told Charles that he kept the body in storage “for a rainy day”. He laughed as he watched himself slice one finger at a time from a thirty-something year old secretary, followed by her toes, packed them neatly in saran wrap and freezer bags, and mailed them out to twenty random addresses in the tri-state area. That was what had eventually gotten him caught, he explained, but it was worth it.

Charles continued to rifle through scores of murderous memories, mostly for his own amusement at this point, asking questions and giving praise where it was due. Then the real fun began. Charles was very, very good at reading people by now, and he knew how to spot even the slightest changes in someone's demeanour. For instance, that dip in enthusiasm when the killer saw that second victim? Clearly covering for something else. So Charles dug deeper, wrenching long-buried fears and emotions from within the other man's psyche.

“Afraid of being buried alive, are we? I bet you wanted to be cremated.” Charles raised his hands above his head for dramatic flair, and the panels reverted to a deep, wooden mahogany. At Charles' command, they began closing in. “I like small spaces,” he commented. “I like when nothing can fit into a space except you.”

His victim was panicking now, and he backed frantically against one of the walls, but Charles advanced on him, now holding the lid of a solid wood coffin. “This is almost too easy. I'm a little disappointed in you, to be honest.” Charles sighed. “All that bravado, all of those beautiful murders and torture scenes, and this is all it takes to undo that psychopathic brain of yours?” He slammed the metaphorical coffin lid over the serial killer and sat on the floor cross legged, watching him shriek and gasp for air. Charles threw the last homicides he could find onto the panels, something to keep him occupied while he waited for the screaming to stop. “You're right,” he said thoughtfully. “This is a boring way to murder.”

 

~

 

Charles was still watching instant replays of people being carved into extremely small pieces when the next soul arrived. The man was in his mid-fifties, sporting a thick, graying mustache and a clean, salt and pepper haircut that would have looked attractive on anyone but him. Nothing would look attractive on this guy, Charles remarked to himself. Did he say that out loud? This guy was looking at him strangely, even for Hell.

“I don't believe it.”

“Neither do I, sometimes,” Charles materialized next to the newcomer, peering at his navy blue Armani suit. “Mm. You smell like money. I've been informed that I had that too, when I was alive.”

“Charles fucking Xavier.”

Charles frowned. “Do I know you? You're too old and out of shape to be one of those X-Men that keeps dying and then whining when I don't remember them. But you do look somewhat familiar. Have I tortured you before?”

“It's me, boy. Kurt.”

Charles pretended to think for half a second and cracked his neck. “Nope, not ringing a bell. I don't like this game. Let's play another.” Charles raised two fingers to his temple, but Kurt spoke up again.

“Kurt Marko, you idiot. I married your mother? Kicked the shit out of you daily like the piece of faggot mutie trash you are?”

 _Mutie. Pussy. Faggot. Not worthy._ The words echoed in Charles' head, dislodging something long-buried. He stood frozen, his mind reeling, as Kurt advanced on him.

“I thought this was supposed to be Hell,” Kurt remarked with an almost feral grin.

Charles couldn't hear him. His mind was a whirlpool of pain and anger and fear, punctuated with flashes of unwanted memories. There was Kurt, standing over him, belt in hand, telling Charles he'd never have his inheritance, never amount to anything, never _matter_. There was Kurt, grabbing Charles by the hair, smashing his face into a wall and breaking Charles' nose when he found Charles kissing a boy in his room. And there was Kurt, telling him to shut that faggot cocksucking mouth of his and take his beating like a man.

Charles shuddered and refocused on the Kurt Marko before him, open palm raised and ready to strike. Charles' face contorted into pure, unfettered rage and, with a single thought, slammed Kurt backwards against the wall. “Not. Again.” Charles growled. “Never again!”

Kurt stared, wide-eyed at Charles with something akin to...fear, Charles realized. Kurt was actually afraid of him. And God, it felt good.

“Eight years,” he snarled. “Eight _years_ you tortured me. You drove me to sell me soul. To become _this!”_ He gestured to the shining, black void of his eyes and broke into a cruel smile. “But now?” Charles tore into Kurt's mind, eliciting a shriek of agony from his newest victim. “Now you're mine. And I'm not afraid of you anymore.”

 

~

 

“Please...”

Charles laughed mirthlessly. “Now you beg? Now you ask me to stop? How many times, Kurt?” Charles circled his stepfather's body, lying prone and bleeding on the floor. He'd started in Kurt's mind, just as he always did, but it wasn't enough. Not this time. Charles dropped to a crouch and reached for the end of Kurt's small intestines, looping the organ around his index and middle fingers. “How many times did I collapse at your feet, begging you to let me go?”

Kurt coughed up a thick mixture of phlegm and blood, unable to respond.

“What, you don't remember?” Charles dropped the intestines and grabbed Kurt by his shirt collar. “Well guess what? I do. Usually,” he continued, ripping through Kurt's mind, smirking when he found his pain receptors and turned them up like the volume on a radio, “I like to pick through people's memories. I pick my favourites and I make them relive the most horrifying, awful moments of their lives. But you know what? I want to play another game this time. Something special that I've been saving just for you.”

Charles scraped together every last painful memory, every bruise, laceration, cigarette burn, bigoted slur, and on and on until it was all there, teeming in a haze of pure rage and energy at the the forefront of Charles' mind. “This time, you can have mine.” His fists clenched and he slammed his memories into Kurt's mind, pushing all of his suffering into the assault. Kurt's body, or what was left of it, anyway, convulsed and shuddered, but didn't make a sound as Charles' memories infected every last inch of Kurt's psyche, spreading like a poison killing everything it touched. Charles watched at the very edge of it all, taking a perverse pleasure in the way his stepfather was being utterly destroyed inside. Tendrils of the dark, twisted energy that Charles had set loose licked at his feet like flames, but Charles glared them down and they skittered away to finish their work.

“Charles.”

He heard the voice from far away, calling him back to the physical world, but Charles ignored it. He wanted to see this to the end.

“Charles, come on, you need to wake up.”

He forced Kurt's eyes open and watched a man, no a demon like him, try to shake his corporeal body awake.

“I know you can hear me,” the demon told him. “You know what happens if you go to deep. Come back to me.”

“I'm not done,” Kurt's shredded throat choked on the words, but Charles made it work.

The demon—Erik, his name was Erik, Charles knew this instinctively, looked up, startled, but quickly recovered himself. “You broke the rules again. No physical torture, remember?”

“I remember a lot of things,” Kurt's throat gurgled. “Like the face of the man who tortured me every. Single. Night.”

Erik narrows his eyes at the body's mangled features. “Oh. Oh, no. Charles, yo have to get out of there.”

“I'm. Not. Done.”

Erik shakes his head furiously. “They should never have sent him to you. Bad shit happens when the work gets personal, okay? You lose yourself in the torture. I mean, literally lose pieces of yourself. And someone like you, already fragmented? This could destroy you.”

“Not if I destroy him first.” Charles returned to his work, directing dark, snaking tendrils into the furthest recesses of Kurt's mind.

“Listen to me!” Erik was still at it, yelling angrily at Kurt's soon to be corpse. “I know what he did to you, Charles. His actions drove you to seek me out. He's the reason you're like this. Are you really going to give him the satisfaction of knowing you enjoy causing pain as much as he did?”

Charles went completely still, and the last, creeping edges of darkness freeze as well. “No. I'm not him. He deserves this! I never deserved what he did to me!”

“You're right,” Erik took Charles' hand as he spoke, and Charles' projected self shivered at the phantom sensation.

“Don't spoil this for me, Erik. I'm finishing this, one way or another.” But Charles was shaking now, his control over Kurt's mind fracturing. The black, poisonous mass he'd created seemed to feel the shift in power, and slowly reached out to Charles' presence. Across from Erik, Kurt's eyes snapped open, black and pulsing.

“Charles?”

Charles backed away from his creation, still trembling. “I'm not him. I'm not him. I'M NOT HIM!” Charles flung himself violently back, into his own body and jolted awake. “I'm not him,” he sobbed, burying his face against Erik's throat. He felt Erik's arms wrap tightly around him and he clung to his lover like a lifeline. “I'm not him.”

“I know, my darling, I know,” Erik murmured.

 _What's going on in there?_ Emma's icy voice in Erik's head made him flinch, but Charles didn't react. _Upper management has contacted me. They can't retrieve the soul they sent down last._

_That's because there's nothing left off it._

Emma materialized into the room instantly and stalked over to what was left of Kurt Marko, ignoring Charles' muffled sobs.

“And what do you call this?” she demanded. “Charles, for God's sake, you know better.”

“That,” Erik retorted, fury rolling off of him in waves, “is his stepfather.”

Emma's eyes widened in comprehension. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Erik couldn't help but take satisfaction in Emma's naked horror. “And I think you know exactly how wrong this scenario is.”

“I'll be investigating this immediately,” Emma informed him. “Cleanup's already on their way. In the meantime, get him out of here. In fact, take a leave of absence. One year, plus the six months on your contract. I don't want him back here until he's back to normal. Well, normal for him,” she corrected.

Erik stared at her in disbelief. Had she really just handed them a year and a half together?

“Go on then,” she shooed them off with a flick of her wrist. “Before I change my mind and put him in re-education instead.”

That was all the motivation Erik needed. He rose to his feet, bundling Charles into his arms, and dematerialized, reforming in their bedroom, where he lowered Charles onto the black duvet. Charles retreated into himself, drawing his knees inward and making himself as small as possible. Even his bare toes seemed to curl inward, trying to get away from some invisible threat. When Erik moved to join him, he hit an actual invisible barrier, preventing him from getting any closer. _Charles_.

“Okay,” Erik said aloud. “Okay. I'll be here when you're ready.”

 

~

 

Erik paced outside the bedroom door. He'd been pacing for nearly four hours, wearing a deep groove into the immaculate hardwood floors. Charles wouldn't let him inside, even now, five days after Erik had brought him here. Every time Erik reached for the doorknob, something in the back of his mind made him stop and resume his pacing. He wanted to trust that Charles would let him in when he was ready. He wanted to give Charles the space he thought he needed to work things out in his mind. He wanted to break down the door and barge inside right now and gather Charles into his arms as if maybe Erik could keep him together if only he held on tight enough.

Erik stopped pacing. Something was wrong. He rested an experimental palm on the door handle, and, feeling no resistance, opened the door.

“Fuck me,” Erik cursed. The bedroom was empty.

He went to the roof first, hoping that Charles had just gone up to watch the stars. He found them calming, most of the time, but there was no sign of him. Erik combed his fingers through his hair and resumed his anxious pacing. Charles could be halfway around the world by now, the way he dematerialized like it was a parlour trick—no. Erik stopped in his tracks. Charles had his memories back, and Erik knew exactly where he was going.

 

~

 

_Don't see me_

_Don't see me_

Charles repeated the words like a mantra in his mind as he moved through the mansion, silent and invisible. The only residents awake at this hour were ensconced in their rooms, but Charles didn't want to take the chance. He just had to see, just once, just to know that that the school was everything he'd dreamed it would be. Erik wouldn't understand, would never let him go, so wrapped up in rules and regulations and fear of reprisal. But Charles wouldn't even be seen, he'd just take a quick tour and ghost out like he'd never been there at all.

_Don't see me_

He went upstairs first, trailing his fingers along the wood panelling as he passed empty classrooms, dark and deserted but recently used. Good. He could sense the students in their rooms above his heads, talking, laughing, studying, safe and comfortable and _real_.

_Don't see me_

The elevator security systems still recognized him, his newly clear, azure eyes accepted by the retinal scan. When the door opened to reveal brightly lit, blue-chrome hallways, Charles' feet seemed to move of their own accord. He stopped in front of another retinal scan, which accepted him easily with a tinny, female greeting: “Welcome, Professor.”

The locks within the round, metal door whirred and clicked, sliding apart from the centre of the massive “X” emblazoned across it. Charles entered the massive, spherical room as if in a fugue state, walking the length of the catwalk as he had so many times in life. He stopped when he reached the control panel at the far end, which was wired to a familiar, helmet-like interface.

“I missed you,” Charles whispered, reaching out to rest a hand on the helmet. He wanted so badly to put it on, to join with Cerebro as he once did, to feel all those minds alive and--

_DON'T SEE ME_

“I know you're there. I can smell you.”

Charles snatched his hand back and turned around to find a muscular, hirsute and very irate man glaring at him. Or rather, the space where he assumed Charles should be. “Show yourself,” he demanded.

Charles noticed the bloodstains on the man's white tank top, crusting brown around jagged, gaping tears in the fabric, but there are no wounds beneath. A mutant, then. Obviously. When he didn't comply, the other man balled his hands into fists as three metal claws, easily a foot log, emerged from the tops of each hand. “I'm not in the mood for games. It's been a very long day.”

Charles slowly faded into view, his gaze transfixed on he metal claws. “Fascinating.”

“You got about 5 seconds to explain yourself before I show you how 'fascinating' they are up close.”

Charles slipped effortlessly into the other man's mind, smoothing out his suspicions as he spoke. “I...I live here. Or I did. I came back.”

The man—Logan, Charles picked the name from his mind—stared hard at him for a long moment, an Charles gave him another little nudge of _calm_ to make him frown and retract his claws. “Hmmph. Can't keep track of who comes and goes half the time.” he turned and stalked back down the catwalk. “Well? Come on. Cerebro's off limits to students.”

Charles cast one last longing glance at the helmet, but fell into step behind Logan, following him to the elevators.

In the kitchen, Logan waved a hand at the stools behind the marble topped island. “Sit.”

Charles obeyed automatically. It was easier, having someone tell him what to do. Like the way Erik gave him direction, guidance, helped him focus when--

“You hungry?” Logan was scanning the fridge, grabbing a beer and a Tupperware container filled with some kind of rice dish. “You look like you haven't eaten in days.”

Charles blinked. He was hungry, but not for that. He hadn't fed since before Kurt, before he'd unloaded all of his pain and suffering instead of consuming his fill. It was worth it though, just to have this quiet moment of lucidity, to have something of himself back again.

“Here. Eat.” Logan pushed the now steaming container across the counter at him, along with a fork, and cracked open the can of beer for himself. Charles shook his head. Had Logan microwaved it already? He had to stop losing time. He had to stop losing a lot of things.

Charles tentatively picked up the fork and took a bite, not really tasting anything but needing something solid and real to focus on.

“So what was that trick downstairs?: Logan took a long swig of his beer and sat down across from Charles. “Illusion, invisibility, what?”

“Telepathy,” Charles mumbled, his eyes fixed on his food.

“Shoulda known.” Logan's brow furrowed as he took another drink. “You got a name, kid?”

_Charles Xavier. You might know me as the founder of this school._

When Charles didn't answer, Logan sighed heavily. “Look, we've all got our secrets. No one knows that better than me. But you show up out of nowhere, sneak into Cerebro, won't even tell me your name? What am I supposed to do with you?”

Charles swallowed hard. He nudged against Logan's mind again—and hit a wall of resistance. He'd probably put it up when Charles revealed his mutation. A smile tugged at the corners of Charles' lips. His students had been taught well. Logan, meanwhile, was still watching him, nursing his beer, waiting for an answer.

 _Fine._ “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Scott and the others?” Charles met the other man's steady gaze with his own.

Logan appeared to be considering, locking eyes with Charles while he weighed his options. After a long moment, he put the beer can down on the counter and crossed his arms. “What Slim doesn't know won't hurt him.”

Charles put his fork down and pushed the container of rice away. Once he started talking, the words flowed easily, and he found he couldn't, or didn't want to, stop. He told Logan everything, the deal he made, the souls he tortured, his life with Erik—right up to what made him return to the school tonight, and why he was drawn to Cerebro. It was a huge relief to finally say the words allowed, to confess to this outsider that didn't bat an eye as he described in detail the monster he'd become.

When Charles finished, Logan stood wordlessly and retrieved two more can of beer from the fridge, handing on to Charles before cracking open his own. Charles accepted the offer, confused but immensely appreciative of this small gesture of camaraderie.

“Are you going to wipe my mind now?” Logan asked, sliding back onto the stool. His tone wasn't accusatory, merely curious.

Charles shrugged. “Are you going to tell anyone else about me?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Who you want to know about you is your business.”

“Then...no.”

“You sticking around?”

Charles looked away. “I can't. I mean...I'm not supposed to.”

Logan nodded, understanding. “I've done some pretty terrible things in my lifetime. Killed people. Good, bad, people I loved...” he drifted off for a second, refocused on Charles. “And then I came here. To this school that you founded, specifically for mutants like me who were turned into monsters by those humans your X-Men work so hard to protect. They taught me how to be better, to be more than the animal that I was forced to become. And none of this--” Logan gestured broadly around him-- “would have been possible without you. And I guarantee that if you asked, every single student and teacher here will tell you a story about how they were lost, and found a home here at the Xavier Institute. They have you to thank for that.”

Charles' eyes remained downcast as he fidgeted with the stray thread in his sweater sleeve. “I've never even met most of them.”

“It doesn't matter. Without you, without your dream, none of us would ever have made it this far.” Logan was insistent and firm as he spoke. “You've got more claim to this place than any of us. So if you want it, take it back.”

“I can't.”

“You can't, or you won't?” Logan snapped to attention suddenly, sniffing the air. Charles knew exactly what he was sensing before Logan said, “someone's here.”

Charles glanced at the back door that led outside, past the cemetery, down to a certain gravel path that he knew all too well. _You might as well come in. You can't hide from me._

Erik materialized into the kitchen, a few feet away from where Charles was seated. Logan was instantly on edge, sizing Erik up but addressing Charles as he spoke. “This the guy you were talking about?”

“What have you told him?” Erik grabbed Charles' arm roughly, oblivious to Logan rising to his feet behind him.

“Hands off the Professor, bub.”

“He hasn't been a Professor in a very long time.” Erik glared at Charles, who averted his eyes, ashamed.

“But what if...what if I could be?” Charles' voice was low and uncertain. “I created this school to be a sanctuary. Maybe it could be mine, too.”

Erik didn't answer, and Logan huffed irritably behind him. “Kid deserves a second chance.”

“This isn't your concern.” Erik dematerialized himself and Charles from the room, and Charles found himself in the shadow of a massive oak tree.

“My grandfather planted this tree,” Charles commented absently. “This was his home as much as it is—hnn—Erik--”

Erik's clawed hand stabbed into Charles' chest, cutting off any chance for conversation. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, fingers closing around Charles' heart. “But it's better this way. There are demons far worse than me, who will do far worse than this if they find out what you're doing here.”

Charles' eyes began to cloud, darkness overtaking the blue until his eyes shone like broken Christmas lights in the moonlight. It flowed from Erik's unyielding grip into his heart like a black, viscous poison, targeting and quashing what little hope that had sparked within Charles' soul.

“You selfish bastard,” Charles breathed. “You just couldn't let me go.”

Erik withdrew his claws in shock. “Charles...that's not what this is about. You're a demon. You can't go home.”

“Or maybe you're jealous that you don't have one anymore.” Charles touched his middle finger to the corner of his eye, acutely aware of the changes occurring inside him, and gave a shout of surprise when Erik slammed him against the trunk of the oak tree, vibrating with fury.

“You're right. I don't have a home anymore. It was ripped out from under me long before my death. And afterwards, when I tried to go back, everything and everyone I loved was destroyed. Because I didn't follow the rules. Because I thought I could have my dream. But I was wrong.” Erik's claws, never retracted, dug into Charles' shoulders, holding him in place when Charles tried to shrink away. “And after that? I was 'reconditioned'. Tortured beyond anything anyone could imagine. Even you.” Erik let out a short, joyless laugh. “That's how I survived you back then, in your room. As much as you like to think so, Charles, you're not the best at what you do.”

Charles sent a telepathic shove into Erik's mind, sending him stumbling backwards on the lawn. “I'm not going to repeat your mistakes, Erik.”

“Really? How do you think your new friend would like being flayed alive for indulging you? What would all those students do if your precious school was burned to the ground?” Erik wiped a trail of saliva from his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Hell doesn't like deserters, Charles.”

“And neither, I suspect, do you.” Charles dematerialized, leaving Erik alone in the shadow of the ancient oak tree.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd I'm back. With a new chapter! I'm writing the next one right now, so hopefully I can get that up by the end of the month, and that will conclude this fic. For now, anyway. I'll probably come back to them at some point xD

_“Erik Lehnsherr.” Shaw's back was to the gurney as he slipped the white apron over his head and tied the strings around his waist. “Why must you always run?”_

_Erik strained against the steel cuffs around his wrists, unable to wrap his mind around the cold metal and bend them to his will. Shaw ran his fingers lightly across the instruments laid out on the cart before him, a cruel smile playing across his lips._

_“Did I forget to mention?” Shaw turned to face him, having selected a hand-powered drill that looked more like a medieval torture device than a surgical tool. “You've been depowered. Consider it one of many consequences for your actions.”_

_Erik stopped struggling, his face drained of colour, and Shaw chuckled as he removed the strip of leather from Erik's mouth. “Shall we begin?”_

~

At first, Erik tried to find him. He went to all of the places he knew Charles loved, from rooftops to libraries to underground clubs filled with the pain and intense emotions that he enjoyed feeding on. He would close his eyes, blindly reaching out for any trace of Charles' blackened soul, reaching for even the tiniest remnant of the connection between them, and feel nothing at all. Weeks passed, and eventually he gave up, legs dangling over the side of his own rooftop as he sat and watched the traffic below, realizing that if Charles didn't want to be found, there was absolutely nothing Erik could do about it. 

Erik had given Charles every reason to despise him. He'd taken away Charles' hopes, his dreams, his entire life. Twice. The second time, Erik reasoned, was a mercy. Granted, he missed the young man he'd first fallen in love with, the one that crusaded for a peaceful, utopian future for mutantkind, that had traded his soul for a cause greater than himself, but he also knew better than anyone what happened to those who tried to returned to their lives after death. There was no bright future or happy ending for creatures like them, not in the way Charles had wanted back at the mansion, and especially not for a soul traded and rightfully claimed for Hell. 

Erik inclined his head, feeling the summons of another soul at a crossroads, and dropped soundlessly off the rooftop, dematerializing before he hit the ground. He barely listened to the demands of the woman, offering her the standard ten years before sealing the contract and disappearing to his next quarry. He made six, seven, eight deals more, one after another with every single soul that brought their box of bones and earth and desperation to a crossroads, and when he ran out of victims in his own territory, he began to branch out. Erik swept almost every deal in New York, silencing the demons he intercepted with a vicious, snarling glare. The following night, he started again, this time collecting in the same fashion, ripping out every single heart owed to him and every other demon in a thirty mile radius. 

He continued the same pattern for the rest of the week, throwing himself into his work and taking out any demons who tried to stand in his way with threats first, followed by swift, unrelenting violence. One particular night, after losing a terrified sorority girl while he tore out the throat of a lesser demon. He was about to answer the call of another summons not meant for him when the familiar stench of brimstone filled his nostrils, tendrils of indigo smoke curling around his calves. Erik didn't bother turning around as the newcomer circled him slowly, looking every bit the way humans expected a demon to be – smooth, vermilion skin, midnight black goatee and slicked back hair, and a pointed, prehensile tail swaying lazily behind him. His perfectly crisp, black on black three piece suit did nothing to lessen his devilish appearance. 

“Azazel,” Erik greeted him without emotion. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Hello, Erik.” Azazel grinned toothily. “I'd heard you've been terrorizing your coworkers, but this?” he swept a hand towards the bleeding demon on the ground. “I'm almost impressed.” 

Erik rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Azazel?” 

Azazel faced him now, still smiling. “Always so impatient.” Erik started to speak, but Azazel held up a hand. “Shaw would like you to know that should you continue to assert your dominance over every other demon in his territory, there will be consequences.” 

“I'm doing my job.” 

“And preventing others from doing the same. You are upsetting the order of things, Erik. We have rules for a reason. Or have you forgotten?” 

Erik crossed him arms and frowned. “Fine. I'll keep to myself from now on. Anything else?” 

Azazel smirked. “Always the good little soldier, following your master's orders.” 

Erik flinched. “I've been at the mercy of men following orders,” he growled. 

“Haven't we all,” Azazel replied dryly, then, almost as an afterthought, “I wonder if Charles will take to Shaw as well as you did.” 

Erik shot forward, grabbing Azazel by the front of his perfectly pressed button down and shoving him against the passenger side of a parked silver SUV. “What. Did you say,” he gritted out, inches away from Azazel's face. His eyes were cold, unforgiving steel as he pressed his full weight against the other demon. 

Azazel glanced, unfazed, at Erik's clenched fists gripping his shirt. “Did I forget to mention? Your little pet strolled right through Hellfire's front doors about a week ago, and no one's seen hide or hair of him since.” 

Erik's claws elongated, digging into Azazel's throat. “And when exactly were you planning on telling me this?” 

Azazel shrugged and teleported from Erik's grasp in a cloud of dark, billowing smoke. “When it suited him.” 

Erik spun to face Azazel, knuckles cracking as he flexed his claws, but Azazel merely extended a hand. “Come. He's expecting you.” 

Erik didn't have a chance to ask if he was referring to Shaw or Charles as they teleported away in a haze of sulfuric purple smoke. 

~

The Hellfire Club mansion was one of many lining Fifth Avenue, blending seamlessly into the upper elite aesthetic with its endless windows, ornately carved oak door, and smooth, arching stone entranceway. Even the pitchfork symbols engraved into either side of the archway, and one the keystone directly over the door, did nothing to lessen the regality of the centuries-old building. If anything, Charles thought as he gazed up at the building, they were probably dismissed as eccentricities of the wealthy. 

Part of him thought that this was a bad idea. He'd seen Erik's nightmares firsthand, of the man who had torn him apart and remade him over and over again, had used those memories to torture Erik himself more than once, when Charles' mind had fractured and—no. He couldn't think of that now. Instead, he reached out with a tendril of his power, feeling his way into the building. There was a party inside, Charles noted as the ghost of a smile passed across his lips, slowly winding down as guests retired to their prepared bedrooms. What time was it? Charles slipped into the mind of a lingering dancer to steal a glance at the grandfather clock at the far end of the ballroom. It was nearly three am. He looked down through borrowed eyes and realized with a start that he was dancing with a corpse, the woman's head bobbing backwards to reveal a neat, bloody slash across her neck. Her blood drenched her exposed throat and breasts, the plunging lace neckline of her dress sticking to her gore-stained skin. Something wet squelched under the heel of his host's shoe, and Charles glanced down to find a trail of intestines leading to the grand piano, where the remains of a disemboweled body were propped up next to the pianist. His sharp, jagged teeth glinted in the candlelight as he played, leaning into the what was left of the man next to him. 

As Charles continued to scan the room, relinquishing enough control to his host to keep him moving, his eyes locked on a single, familiar face. Sebastian Shaw stood at near the window, sipping red wine (it was too purple to be blood, Charles knew) as he conversed with a red haired woman in black, her fur-trimmed cloak covering most of her body. As she shifted to face the dance floor, however, Charles could see that she was wearing only a black overbust corset, matching panties, and thigh high boots underneath. 

As Shaw's eyes moved to those of the dancer Charles had piggybacked, Charles snapped back to his own body, blinking in the harsh, synthetic light of the streetlamp above him. His target was there. That was all he needed. He strode up to the front door and tried the handle, and was surprised when he found it unlocked. Then again, he supposed, not many people must come to the Hellfire Club without an invitation. A maid met him in the foyer, and barely spoke two words before she dropped, unconscious to the plush, crimson carpet. Another maid appeared, but Charles dropped her as well, and stepped gingerly over her as he made his way to the ballroom. 

He didn't bother altering the guests' perceptions as he walked in. The dancer he'd previously inhabited barely noticed as he walked past, still entranced with the corpse in his arms, and the pianist was entirely engrossed in the rising crescendo of the piece he was playing. Charles wove through the other dancers, his worn, navy blue cardigan making him seem entirely out of place among tuxedos and elaborate, Victorian gowns. He could feel Shaw's eyes on him, watching his every move, from the way Charles ran his fingers over his smooth, hairless skull, to his deliberately casual pace as he sidestepped a very intoxicated demon and showed no reaction as his heel squeaked against the blood-slick hardwood floor. 

Shaw dismissed his companion with a nod, and the woman drifted into the thinning crowd, gloved fingers trailing possessively over the shoulders of the demons she passed. The edges of her cloak swept against Charles' ankles as they crossed paths, the touch of her fingertips on his shoulder mimicking the soft, curious power grazing against his mind. He didn't bother pushing her out; his own mental shields were more than enough to prevent her from prying. Charles felt her withdraw almost immediately, already seeking out easier prey. 

Charles approached the window and pivoted on his heel, claiming the space that the red-haired woman had previously occupied. Shaw raised his nearly empty glass to Charles, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

“Charles Xavier,” Shaw greeted him. “I don't recall extending you an invitation.” 

“I don't recall needing one.” Charles slipped his hands into his pockets, thumbing the belt loops on his pants, outwardly nonchalant while he rifled through Shaw's mind. 

Shaw chuckled softly. “Apparently not.” He touched his index finger to his temple. “You're sneaking around in here, Charles. Whatever are you looking for?” 

Charles shrugged. “You tell me.” 

Shaw paused, considering, before answering. “Let's continue this somewhere more private.” 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “You're willing to be alone in a room with me?” 

“From what I've heard, you could kill me, and everyone in this room, right now with a thought if you wanted to,” Shaw replied coolly. “But you that's not what you came for, is it?” 

Charles pulled Shaw's memories like library archives, watching various torture scenarios, murders, and...Emma Frost. He tossed an image of one of their most recent meetings into the forefront of Shaw's mind. “No,” Charles admitted. “Not yet, anyway. Or has Emma failed to mention how I enjoy playing with my food?” 

~ 

Azazel teleported directly into the main foyer, effectively skipping over any misgivings Erik might have had about entering the mansion. It was exactly as Erik remembered it, timeless and decadent with its plush, red carpets, ornate candelabras, and massive, gold-railed staircase sprawled before them. Erik still remembered climbing those stairs for the first time, trailing behind Azazel as he showed Erik to his quarters. He wondered idly if someone else now inhabited his room, any trace of Erik's presence there entirely erased. 

Azazel strode past the stairs towards a curving hallway, and Erik followed dutifully behind until they stopped in front of a door that Erik knew from memory led to Shaw's study. He inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled through his mouth as he stared at the wood paneling, bracing himself for the meeting he'd been putting off for decades. 

Azazel knocked brusquely and, hearing a muffled “come in”, flicked his tail out to grip the doorknob and ease it open. He gestured for Erik to enter first, and when Erik didn't comply, he merely narrowed his eyes and stepped into the room. 

“As you requested,” Azazel bowed deeply, giving Erik a perfect view of the man who had made him, sitting with a book in his hands in a high backed velvet wing chair. An identical chair, Erik noticed, was positioned directly across from Shaw, waiting for an occupant. 

On seeing Erik, Shaw closed the book and set it on the small side table next to him. Shadows danced across his face, cast by the flames of the crackling fireplace, and for a moment his eyes flashed from coal black to clear, ocean blue. Erik blinked, and Shaw's eyes were black as an endless void, but for a tiny prick of light at their centre where his pupils should have been. 

“Thank you, Azazel. You're dismissed.” 

Azazel straightened and, with a brief nod to Erik, teleported from the room. Shaw gestured to the chair before him, but Erik remained where he was as the haze of purple smoke cleared, earning a smirk from his maker. 

“Stubborn as always, I see,” Shaw smoothed the wrinkles in his charcoal grey suit and folded his hands into his lap. “Will you not afford me this simple courtesy?” 

Erik's gaze remained fixed on Shaw's face as he stepped towards the chair and sat down. Shaw nodded his approval. “That wasn't so difficult, was it?” 

“Where is Charles.” He didn't phrase it as a question. 

“In due time,” Shaw replied, and Erik's lip curled in response. “So possessive of your toys, Erik.” 

“You're one to talk.” 

“I gave you more freedom than anyone else here,” Shaw told him. “None of the others ever had the privileges I offered you. Not even Azazel.” 

Erik gripped the arms of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. “What do you want, Shaw?” 

Shaw seemed to consider the question, and Erik knew exactly what was coming. A question for a question. “Do you know why Charles came to me, Erik?” His eyes flashed in the firelight. 

Erik feigned indifference. “Probably because he was bored. That's the reason behind most of his actions.” 

Shaw huffed out a short, breathy laugh. “Bored, yes. Of you, and your rules, and your endless posturing and protections. He wanted freedom, and when he walked into my little soiree last week, he knew that I could be the one to give it to him.” When Erik didn't reply, he continued, “You asked be what I wanted, but I already have it. Thanks to you, Erik, I have one of the most powerful mutants on Earth, or in Hell for that matter, under my roof.” 

Erik stared at him for a long moment, and then a slow smile crept across his face. “You are in way over your head. You can't control him. In fact,” Erik added, “He's controlling you right now. Isn't that right, Charles?” 

Shaw glared at him, indignant. “Do you really have such little respect for me that you would---”

“Really, Charles,” Erik cut in. “How long must we play this game?” 

Shaw grinned, then, wide and uncharacteristic, and uncrossed his legs to lean forward in the chair. “Clever, Erik. What gave me away?” 

“Your eyes changed colour, when I came in. I thought it was a trick of the light, but then, the way you reacted when I said you were bored. There was more passion in the way you spoke than Shaw would ever allow himself to show.” 

Charles/Shaw sat back, apparently satisfied. “So you figured out that I could, and was, controlling Shaw in just a short conversation with him. And yet, after spending decades at your side, you still thought I needed to be coddled and protected.” 

“You're right,” Erik conceded. “I thought I was helping, by keeping you away from Shaw, from all of this. I was wrong.” 

“You tried to control me, and now I'm the one in control. Of all of this.” Charles swept his hand out, gesturing around him. “Shaw is mine, and by extension so is the Hellfire Club and all of its employees. You see, Erik, I don't need you to keep me safe. Everyone else needs to be kept safe from me.” 

“So what now?” Erik asked. “You've proven your point, and you have me, and every other demon in New York, at your mercy.” 

Charles frowned. “This started out as a way to show you how ridiculous you were being. But now? I think I like it here. Maybe I'll play the Black King a little longer. You cold join me, if you want. The White King has recently been...dethroned. You can take his place.” 

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Dethroned?” 

“It sounded nicer than disemboweled and telepathically lobotomized. Twice.” Charles shrugged. “It's been a long week. Shaw really doesn't have that many toys.” 

“I spent years trying to get out of the Hellfire Club.” 

“Oh, but it's much more fun getting in,” Charles insisted, lips curving into a very not-Shaw smile. “Come on, Erik. Play with me!” 

Erik sighed and shook his head, amusement colouring his tone as he spoke. “Alright, but I want to be at your side, not Shaw's. Put away your meat puppet and join me properly.” 

“Anything for you, darling.” Shaw's head dropped and lolled to one side, and Charles faded into view, stepping out from behind the chair as he did. 

Erik didn't bother to hide his relief as he stood and moved to touch Charles' cheek. “I missed you.” Charles took a step back, just out of his reach, and Erik dropped his hand, face falling. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I forget, sometimes, that you're stronger than I am. I forget that you're not the same mortal whose soul I took all those years ago. You don't need me to take care of you.” 

Charles shook his head with a smile. “Erik,of course I need you. Why do you think I went through all of this trouble to get you here? Although, he added, “It was fun hollowing out Shaw's mind and playing puppet master. And you wouldn't believe how he screamed. The point,” Charles continued, cutting off Erik's attempt to speak, “is that you keep me focused. You remind me who I am, and bring me back than I start to lose myself. I just wish you would do that with fewer rules.” 

“You seem to be doing just fine right now.” 

“I've been practicing. For you. It's always for you.” 

Erik reached for Charles again, and this time, Charles let him pull him into a tentative embrace. “I'm sorry,” Erik repeated. “I'll try to be better. For you.” 

Charles tensed against him, and Erik felt the shift in Charles' mental state, thick and tangible in the air. Erik didn't say anything more, just held him until Charles relaxed again and met Erik's eyes. “Shaw was trying to sneak out. Thought I was distracted. Anyway, you were saying?” 

Erik searched Charles' face for recognition of Erik's apology, and, finding none, pressed a kiss to Charles' mouth. “I love you.” 

“I know.” Charles slipped out of Erik's arms and grabbed his hand. “Come with me.” Together, they dematerialized form the room, and Erik found himself standing in a familiar operating room, white and sterile and accented with silver carts, their trays lined with the surgical tools that Erik remembered all too intimately. He could still feel the cold steel against his skin, unable to control or stop Shaw from slicing into him with his powers neutralized, straining against the leathers straps across his chest--

“Erik!”

Erik was aware of Charles cradling Erik's face in his hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, as the room slowly came back into focus. He'd backed against a wall, shrinking away from the operating table and the memories it had unlocked. He blinked once, twice, and Charles drew away from him as Erik slowly rose to his feet. 

“Now,” Charles said, gesturing to the table, and Erik saw that it was Shaw now strapped down with leather and steel, “Let's have a little fun, shall we?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has taken far too long to post, but then again, when o I ever update on a decent schedule? This is the last chapter for this series, for now anyway..

Afterwards, when they'd tired of tearing Shaw apart piece by piece, shredding his body and his mind in rapid succession, after Charles reached into Shaw's mind and heightened every single one of Shaw's nerve endings and forced him to scream and beg for it to end, Erik hooked his claws into Shaw's shoulder blade, nail scraping bone, and hauled him into the ballroom and onto an ornate, throne-like chair at the far end of the room.

Erik straightened Shaw's gore-stained suit, tucking in the ragged seams of skin before buttoning Shaw's shirt over what was left of his chest and abdomen. Charles had assured Erik earlier that Shaw was still in there, trapped within a mind that Charles had thoroughly wrecked over and over again, and able to watch helplessly as tonight's events unfolded. The telepath in question was currently shooing the maids out of the room, preventing them from mopping the smeared trail of blood that led from the entrance to Shaw's throne. 

“It's just like Shaw to roll out his own personal red carpet,” Erik commented, stepping back to admire his work. “You know, seeing him like this now, I don't know how I was ever so afraid of him.” 

Charles looped an arm around Erik's waist, lips grazing his throat. “I'm definitely scarier than he is.” 

Erik laughed. “Yes, yes you are.” 

“It's all a matter of perspective, I think. You were powerless back then. Oh, that reminds me!” Charles looked up at him with a grin. “I know how to get your powers back!” 

Erik's eyes widened in surprise. “What?” 

“There is a lot of useful information kicking around in Shaw's head. And I mean a lot. Did you now that Madelyne girl is a clone? I knew she looked familiar. Also, Azazel--” 

“Charles,” Erik interrupted. “Focus. Please.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Shaw used a mutant to siphon your powers, and then a telepath to lock what was left away in the depths of your mind. They were buried so deep I never noticed or even thought to look, for that matter. So you see,” Charles said, “It's been inside of you all this time. Like Dorothy's ruby slippers. There's no place like home.” 

“So you can just go into my head and unlock them again, right?” 

Charles nodded. “Yes. Well, probably.” 

Erik narrowed his eyes, realization sinking in. “And you're just telling me this now?” 

“We were busy. You know how I get distracted, especially in a head like his. Do you know that Emma used to be part of this Hellfire Club nonsense? He's been watching me through her this entire time, but because of her, he also needed me to come here of my own free will.” Charles glanced over at Shaw's ruined body. “That was a mistake.” 

Erik spun Charles to face him, cupping Charles' chin between thumb and forefinger. “Can you...can you really give me my powers back?” 

“Yes,” Charles repeated. “Maybe. I think so?” he brushed his fingers against Erik's temple. “Putting something back can't be any more difficult that ripping things out. It won't be nearly as fun, though.” Something caught his eye over Erik's shoulder. “We've got company.” 

Erik turned to where Charles' attention now lay, and found Azazel gaping at the scene before him, his eyes flicking back and forth between Erik and Charles, and Shaw. 

“What have you done?” Azazel demanded, addressing Erik as he stormed towards the pair. 

Erik smirked. “I'd love to take all of the credit for this little display, but...” he inclined his head towards Charles, who was now lazily circling them both. “He started it.” 

“The king is dead,” Charles quipped with a grin, spreading his arms wide. “Long live the king.”

Azazel stared at Charles for a moment, then turned back to Erik. “You can't be serious.” 

“Oh, I rarely am,” Charles replied. “But I don't think you can get any more serious than spending hours in a basement elbow-deep in the blood of your enemies.”

“So you killed him.” 

“Mostly,” Erik said. “We brought him here to watch.” 

Azazel frowned. “Watch what, exactly?” 

“The fall of the empire, obviously,” Erik explained, the corners of his mouth quirking in amusement at Azazel's increasingly horrified expression. “The Hellfire Club is done, Azazel. All of this antiquated, monarchic bullshit is over.” 

“This 'monarchic bullshit' is what maintains the balance in our world,” Azazel spat, grabbing Erik's arm to yank him forward. Charles narrowed his eyes, but Erik sent him a silent _not yet_ , and Charles obeyed, rocking back on his heels as he watched Azazel's hand tighten on Erik's bicep. 

“Sebastian Shaw isn't just a figurehead,” Azazel continued, oblivious to Charles' attention. “He throws his parties as a means of controlled indulgence. He sets the parameters by which we operate on mortal soil. And when one of us steps out of line, he punishes them accordingly. He is a necessity, and you know it.” 

Charles yawned theatrically as he strolled up next to them. “With great power comes great responsibility, blah, blah, blah. If you're so well versed in his job, maybe you should take it.” 

Azazel raised an eyebrow, and Erik shrugged free of his grip. “That's actually not a bad idea,” Erik agreed thoughtfully. “We could introduce you as the new Black King tonight.” When Azazel hesitated, Erik added, “Or, Charles could rip your mind to shreds and give away your limbs as party favours. Whatever strikes his fancy” 

“Well when you put it that way,” Azazel scowled, “How can I refuse?” 

~ 

All things considered, Shaw's going away party, as Charles had taken to calling it, went rather well. Charles pronounced Shaw dead, crowned himself king, then abdicated a  
and passed the mantle on to Azazel, all in under thirty seconds flat, leaving his guests reeling and Erik stifling laughter beside him. Azazel, for his part, remained stoic and humourless, accepting his promotion and tolerating Charles' threats of another coup should he misbehave. Truth be told, Erik was relieved that Charles had changed his mind about the two of them taking over the Hellfire Club. He hated this place, the memories it dredged up, and the demons within. And Azazel, with his desperate need for rules and stability, was the perfect man for the job. Better him than me, Erik smirked to himself, accepting another glass of wine from a passing server. 

_I told you, Erik. Anything for you._ Charles danced lightly around swirling skirts and silver trays and took the wine glass from Erik's hand, downing its contents before placing it on yet another passing tray. You have to love the service in this place. Almost makes me miss my inheritance. 

“And speaking of my inheritance,” Charles mused aloud, “Since we're finished here, I've decided to go back.” 

“Back where?” Erik asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“Home.” Charles trailed his fingertips up Erik's forearm as he spoke. “Just for a little while.” 

“Charles--” 

“Don't even,” Charles interrupted, nails digging through the fabric of Erik's suit and into his skin. “You're not denying me his, Erik, not this time. Shaw is basically dead, and if you haven't noticed I've been remarkably lucid lately.” 

“I was going to say that if that's what you want, you should go,” Erik told him, a smile ghosting across his lips. “For a telepath, you can be incredibly dense sometimes.” 

Charles loosened his grip incrementally. “You're not mad that I want to go alone?” 

“I'm not happy about it,” Erik conceded. “There's nowhere I'd rather be than by your side, but we have eternity. I think we can manage a little time apart.” 

“We have eternity,” Charles agreed, taking Erik's hands to tug him towards the centre of the ballroom floor. “And we have tonight.” 

~

**Year 33**

Eight months, six days. That was how long it had been since that night at the Hellfire mansion, when they had paraded Shaw before the masses, and danced until the blood on the hardwood floors had begun to dry and flake beneath their feet. Afterwards, they'd retired to Erik's apartment, and spent the night memorizing every inch of each other's bodies until the first rays of dawn filtered through a crack between the curtains. He could still feel the ghost of Charles' smooth, milky white skin beneath his fingers, the curve of Charles' hips, the rise of his chest with every moan and exhalation that left his lips. Later, when he returned to change the sullied sheets and replace them with fresh, silk sheets the colour of spilled wine, he paused to the fabric to his face one last time and inhale the lingering scent of his lover, faint as that of freshly fallen snow. 

He threw himself back into his work after Charles left, not as aggressively as before, but enough that the other local soul dealers kept their distance, giving Westchester County and the northern edges of New York City a wide berth. Azazel only called on him once, not to criticize or threaten but to ask if Erik wanted to be present when Shaw was salted and burned. Erik surprised himself by agreeing, gaining some small satisfaction in lighting the rather elegant funeral pyre that Azazel had constructed. It was a private affair, with only the Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club in attendance, and Erik had remained long enough to watch the final embers die before dematerializing without a word. 

Now, eight months and six days after Charles had kissed him goodbye and left for the mansion on Greymalkin, Erik felt a familiar prickling sensation in the back of his mind. He was only a few blocks from his apartment, blood dribbling down his chin as he sunk his teeth into the faintly beating heart clutched in his hand. It's owner, a thirty-eight year old woman that had sold her soul for a few years of freedom from an abusive spouse, was draped like a neglected marionette on the park bench next to him when something, tugged at the edges of his awareness. 

Charles hadn't called out to him, nor did he need to. His sullied soul sang to Erik as one that he'd claimed over thirty years ago, and Erik followed that siren song up to the roof of his apartment, licking blood from his fingertips. 

The new building manager had commissioned a rooftop garden about six months ago, and it was still a work in progress, fresh concrete walkways lining fresh grass pallets and potted shrubbery, ready for planting in the morning. Charles had found a wicker lounge chair among the clutter and was reclining comfortably, hands folded across his stomach.

“It's amazing how easily they accept 'back from the dead' as an explanation,” Charels mused, his gaze fixed on the night sky. As Erik drew closer, he saw that Charles' eyes were back to a pure, obsidian black. “Mind you, I've had that Jean Grey girl downstairs at least three times now. It's a wonder she didn't remember me.” 

Erik sat down on the edge of the chair near Charles' feet, crossing one leg over the other.

“I think they've all died at least once. It's like some bizarre rite of passage for becoming an X-Man. That's what they call themselves,” Charles added, glancing sideways at Erik. “The X-Men. After the X-Gene, and after me.” 

“Are you planning on going back?” Erik asked, keeping his tone casual. 

“No,” Charles answered shortly. “They don't want me anymore. But it's fine,” he continued, even as Erik stared at him, stricken. “The Summers boys are taking care of the school now, along with one of the newer ones. Storm, she calls herself. She lives in a greenhouse on the roof, far more beautiful than whatever it is they're trying to do here.” Charles gestured around him for emphasis. “She hasn't died yet, but she did lose her powers for awhile, which for her was kind of like dying. Oh! That reminds me. Wasn't I supposed to help with yours before I left? You know you have to remind me of these things.” 

“What did you do, Charles?” Erik slipped the question in before Charles could continue on another tangent. “Should I be concerned?” 

Charles shrugged, fingering the sleeve of his sweater. It was a new one, Erik noticed, navy blue with dark brown patches on the elbows. He'd probably found it among his old possessions at Graymalkin. 

“You're always concerned. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Erik's hand went to Charles' thigh, tracing the curve of muscle and squeezing his knee affectionately. 

Charles sighed heavily. “I fought Amal Farouk, and won. He runs around calling himself the Shadow King. What is it with everyone proclaiming themselves royalty? Shadow King, Black King, White Queen, it just seems so tacky. You can't just slap a title on yourself and demand respect. I singlehandedly dismantled the Hellfire Club, and I didn't have to call myself king to do it.” 

“Sounds like you did them a favour.” 

Another shrug. “I suppose. Farouk wanted to play a game, and I agreed. You know I can't resist a challenge.” 

“I am aware,” Erik remarked dryly. 

“He thought he was immortal. He was wrong. I played his games and I made them mine, and then I consumed him. Don't give me that look, I know the rules, but if you met this creature, you wouldn't want to find him in Hell later either. Plus, he can't come back from the dead now, which I thought the X-Men might appreciate.” 

“But that's not why you did it.” 

Charles was quiet for a moment, appearing almost contrite as his gaze dropped to his lap. “I've never felt power like that before. The things he could do...and his mind was obscenely delicious. I feel like I barely scratched the surface of his depravities, even after all that time in his head. Oh, I wish you could have seen it, Erik, I could have projected his past on the walls and spent a lifetime gorging myself on him.” 

Erik uncrossed his legs, which Charles took as an invitation to hook his ankles over Erik's thighs and pull himself forward. Erik acquiesced to his unspoken request, lifting Charles into his lap and twining their fingers together. 

“And afterwards?” 

“Afterwards....” Charles tilted his head only slightly, considering. “Afterwards, I came here. They didn't want me anymore.” 

There was something else, something Charles wasn't telling him. “Charles--” 

“I don't remember, alright?” he buried his face against Erik's shoulder. “It was a blur after Farouk. He was too much for me but I took it anyway and then I woke up in a box and Psylocke was watching me. She told me she was the one who managed to shut me down, and that I had to stay in that box until the others decided what to do with me. So I left.”

“Okay. Okay,” Erik was stroking Charles' hair as he spoke. “It's not your fault.” 

“Bloody right it isn't,” Charles mumbled into his shoulder. 

Erik pressed a kiss to the top of Charles' head, and stilled. Something else was tugging at his insides now, that familiar call of the crossroads, and someone ready to make a deal. 

“Duty calls,” Charles raised his head, evidently picking up on Erik's thoughts. 

“I don't need to go,” Erik told him quietly. “It's not like Shaw will come after me about it.” 

A soft huff of laughter, and the Charles was kissing him, assertive and full of promise. “Go. You know you want to. I'll be right here when you get back, I'm too tired to move.” 

“Would you like me to take you to bed?” 

“Always. But no,” Charles added, when Erik opened his mouth to respond. “I want to see the stars.” 

~

Stargazing had always helped Charles to return to himself, to fit a few of the shattered pieces of his mind together into some semblance of normal. He liked that they were, other than Erik, the one constant in his universe, always there for him when he needed to just stop. 

The constellations had looked different from the mansion, when he'd materialized onto its roof and stretched out on the angled window panes of Storm's greenhouse less than a week into arriving there. They had seemed farther away somehow, a skewed version of the ones that now shone high above where Charles lay, curled on his side with his head resting on his forearm. Perhaps that was why he'd lost himself so easily this time, Charles thought – there had been nothing, and no one, for him to come back to. 

Erik, of course, had become adept at teasing information from him, choosing short, simple questions to guide Charles into a sequential mode of storytelling. Tonight, Charles indulged him, hoping that by recalling the events in order, he might remember what happened after Farouk, and before Psylocke. But where those memories should have been, there was only darkness. He closed his eyes, teetering at the edge of it, and imagined himself plucking a handful of stars from the sky. Then, one by one, he tossed them into the abyss, watching them fall like pennies down a well until their light faded and then winked out entirely. 

_Well that's new_. 

He'd lost memories before; a kiss goodbye, the taste of champagne, the colour of Erik's eyes beneath their usual flinty black, but he always found them eventually, bookended by an event or sensation from a completely different place and time. This....this was wrong. Whatever Charles had done after defeating Farouk, was gone. 

“I must be getting soft in my old age.” 

Charles opened his eyes and found Erik leaning his forearms on the back of Charles' chair. 

“I gave him twenty years,” Erik continued, oblivious to the fact that Charles was only partially listening. “I haven't done that since...well, since you. And you'll never guess what he wanted.” 

That was his cue to pay attention. Charles blinked and sat up. “What?” 

Erik grinned wolfishly. “To join the X-Men.” 

If Charles were still alive, his heart might have skipped a beat. “Good timing,” he said hoarsely. “I hear there's an opening on the roster. Possibly more than one.” 

Erik slipped around the chair to sit on the armrest and put a hand on Charles' shoulder. “Whatever happened, whatever you did--” 

“Is missing,” Charles interjected irritably. “I can't find it.” He tilted his chin skyward, glaring at the stars like they'd wronged him personally. He could feel Erik searching for the right reassurances, beside him, his mind churning through various options before settling on something entirely different. 

“How about a few contracted murders?” Erik offered. “Those usually cheer you up,, and I've racked up quite a few over the past week.” 

Charles did brighten at that, despite himself. It had been awhile since he'd gotten his hands dirty. Or maybe it hadn't, he couldn't remember. He slid forward on the chair and swung his legs over the side to stand and crack his neck, first right, then left. He was aware of Erik's eyes on him, wanting to voices his worry but not wanting to seem overbearing. It was difficult for both of them, striking the balance, and sometimes Charles felt as though Erik saw his human self when he looked at him, fragile and wheelchair bound and full of hope. But Charles didn't hope anymore. He'd tried, in the months he spent with his X-Men, and look where that had gotten him. 

He cracked his knuckles, too, and turned to face Erik, who was now standing as well and waiting for an answer. Charles blinked, and allowed himself a cursory glance at Erik's thoughts. It was cheating, he supposed, but it was better than admitting he'd forgotten the question. 

“Oh Erik, you spoil me.” He grinned, wide and feral, and looped his arm through Erik's. “Nothing like a little bloodshed to get my mind off of my mind.” 

The corners of Erik's mouth quirked up in amusement. “I'd glad you feel that way, because i'm starting to feel more like a hired assassin than a crossroads demon.” 

They dematerialized, reforming further uptown outside of a four story monstrosity that, despite its size, was still dwarfed by Charles' estate. 

Erik pointed to a shadow passing by one of the second floor windows. “The father.” 

Charles rolled his eyes. “How predictable. It exchange for what? Inherited wealth and power?” 

“Freedom.” Erik glanced sideways at him. “Her father goes into her room at night and forces himself on her. She'd rather live ten years free than longer in fear.” 

Charles was preternaturally still for a split second, digesting this information, and then he let go of Erik and disappeared, spiriting himself away and into the house. He was going to enjoy this one. 

**Year 38**

“So this is what you are.” 

“Yes. But I was something else, once.” 

“Something better.” 

Charles nodded. “Perhaps.” 

She was sitting on the floor across from him, legs folded beneath her and oddly calm, long violet hair falling loosely around her shoulders. Her uniform was different than the one she's worn the last time Charles saw her, observing him through the glass of the box meant to hold him. Unlike her previous bodysuit, this one covered her legs, though it was still skintight and sleeveless, the edge of her fuchsia sash trailing on the floor from where it tied at her hip. 

“You were human once.” 

What was her name? Beth? Betty? “Is that what you mean by 'better'?” 

Betsy—yes, that was it, Betsy Braddock, shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps,” she echoed. 

“Psylocke.” That was her code name, the one she used in the field when she was alive. 

She raised an eyebrow. “So you do remember me.” 

Charles took a step forward and sat down, mirroring her pose. “I remember waking up to you playing prison warden. Nice try, by the way, but your power dampening technology doesn't work on demons.”

“You were a danger to others and to yourself.” Psylocke kept her voice level, but firm. “I did what I had to.” 

“Did that include taking away my memories?” 

“I stand by my actions.” 

"I want them back,” Charles told her. “I need to know what happened After Farouk.” 

Psylocke folded her hands in her lap. “A deal, then. Your memories for my freedom.” 

Charles stared. “Making deals is what got me here. I don't do that anymore.” 

She smirked. “No deal, no memories. You can spend eternity wondering what kind of hell you unleashed on them.” 

Charles canted his head to one side. “I could just take them. That's what I do here,” he gestured around him at the domed walls. “I tear souls apart from the inside out, and then I consume their pain.” 

“You could,” Psylocke replied, confident in her assessment, “but you won't.” 

Charles laughed softly and closed his eyes. “Oh, I think I will.” 

Psylocke had taken him down once before, but this was his realm, and here, he would always be stronger. At his will, memories spooled from her mind like reels of film, projecting one after another onto the tiles of the dome. Charles rifled through her past impatiently, uninterested in anything that happened before the X-Men, and fast forwarded to—there. Charles laid the scene out across a three by three grid of panels and stood, barefoot with hands loose at his sides, to watch. 

The Shadow King was not corporeal. Not here, anyway. He had first possessed innocent people, using them to spread his message like a disease across Los Angeles until Charles used Cerebro to pin him down and direct his team into Farouk's path. While Cyclops, Storm, and the others attempted to safely control and subdue the masses, Charles settled himself in for a fight that used his own mind as the battle ground. Psylocke and Angel had remained with him, circling Charles' prone form and using Angel's broad steel wings to prevent the brainwashed civilians from reaching him. 

It was the work of only a few short minutes, although, Charles recalled, it felt more like hours, days, even, to wrest control from the Shadow King, and all at once his puppets collapsed to the ground. Psylocke looked around, confused, the perspective shifting from the bodies on the ground, to the intangible girl that barely looked old enough to be on the team, and finally to Cyclops, who was dropping to his knees to check the victims' pulses. Someone was shouting, and a flash of white hair in Psylocke's peripheral vision confirmed that it was Storm, alerting the team that something was wrong with Charles. 

He had to admit, he did look a little terrifying. There was an aura around him, a living shadow slithering along his body and curling in wisps of smoke as Charles tilted his head, examining the substance licking like flames at his fingertips with interest. What struck Psylocke, however, was that Charles' eyes were once again a pure, gleaming black. Until now, Charles had made the effort to hide his true nature, consciously maintaining his original, human blue eyes. But Farouk's power, Charles realized, watching his past self revel in the decadence of the shadows, was too addictive. He had been drunk on the vast recesses of Farouk's mind, the obscene pleasure in every memory of the Shadow King's conquests. His mind was overflowing, it was too much for him, and the shadows were seeping through his skin because Charles couldn't, or wouldn't, keep them contained. 

In the end, it was Psylocke that took him down, her pink, glowing psychic blade piercing straight through his skull before he could finish crushing Banshee's windpipe. Even so, with Psylocke's memories, he could see that the damage might be permanent, depriving the boy of his namesake's power. Surveying the aftermath through Psylocke's eyes, Charles understood the full extent of his hubris. The Pryde girl was trapped in her intangible form, pouring every ounce of will into floating just off the ground. Logan, who had been the first to accept Charles as he was, had been curled into himself and was now struggling to his feet, while Storm lay battered and unconscious nearby. The others, Charles was sure, were in various states of disarray, but Psylocke was focused on her tasked of keeping Charles subdued and couldn't look after her fallen teammates. The shadows were receding; she had used her psyblade to excise the remnants of the Shadow King from Charles' mind and take some of the darkness into herself. This, Charles realized, was what had eventually killed her. She had struggled for so long, in silence, to save her teammates. 

_And to save you._

Charles whipped around, narrowing his eyes at Psylocke, the real one, still seated on the floor where he had left her. 

“I'm long past saving.” 

 

“I don't need your brand of help,” Charles retorted, circling her impatiently. “I was—I am—a monster. A demon. And I wasn't wanted anymore.” 

_You're also an X-Man. The original. We would never desert you._

“Then you are a fool, and you deserve your fate.” 

Her eyes cracked open as Charles' hold loosened. “I am who I am because of you.” She stood, shakily at first, but seemed to gain strength as she drew herself to her full height. “You had a dream once. Do you remember?” 

“No,” Charles lied. 

“You had a dream of peaceful coexistence between mutants and humans,” Psylocke continued. 

“No.” 

“And until that is achieved, we take care of our own. We learn tolerance and hope, empathy and control. All because of what you started.” 

“And look where that got you,” Charles spat, pacing around her once more. Then, like a cat, he perked up his gaze sliding to the left where a door was taking shape in the curved surface of the wall. A slow smile crept across his face as the door swung open and Erik entered the room, gauging Charles warily as though waiting for him to pounce. He barely spared Psylocke a glance as he approached, as always more interested in Charles than anything else. 

Charles rolled his eyes theatrically. “Will you stop looking at me like I'm going to attack at any moment?” 

“I might, if you hadn't done exactly that the last three times I was here.” Erik crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you ready to go, or did you want to finish this first?” A nod towards Psylocke, an impersonal acknowledgement. 

One by one, the scenes on the tiles flickered out, disappearing into oblivion. He didn't want to eat these ones. It didn't feel right, somehow. Besides, he didn't need memories that were and weren't his floating around in his head. He had enough trouble keeping things straight as it was. 

Charles looked from Erik to Psylocke, who held his gaze for a long moment, as though she was trying to penetrate his mind in return. Maybe she already had, Charles wasn't entirely certain anymore. 

“Make a deal with her,” Charles said, his eyes still locked on Psylocke's . 

Erik uncrossed his arms. “Excuse me?” 

“I can't do it, but you can.” Charles turned to face him. “Give her, I don't know, ten years. Fifteen years. Something.” 

“Charles, that's not how it works,” Erik was trying to explain, but Charles kept talking as if he hadn't spoken. 

“She's down here because of me, and I'm still me because of her. Remember when I told you about Farouk? I need you to help me fix this.” 

Erik sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “She's already dead. I can't make deals with collected souls.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it's against the rules,” Erik answered, keeping his voice level. “What do you care? If she's an X-Man, and I assume she is, she'll be back from the dead at some point anyway.” 

“You and your rules,” Charles muttered. Then, louder, “It's not the same, though. You don't need to trade for anything. Just send her back upstairs and collect her in a decade or two.” He took a step forward, his hands moving up and over Erik's shoulders. “Please. For me.” 

Erik dipped his head forward so that they were nose to nose. “If Emma comes after me for this, I'm blaming you.” 

“Is that a yes?” 

“...Yes.” 

Charles grinned and pressed a kiss to Erik's lips, and then he was back at Psylocke's side in an instant. “There, you have your deal. You get...how many years?” 

“Ten,” Erik told her. “And not a minute more. I shouldn't even be doing this.” 

Psylocke put a hand on Charles' arm. “Thank you. I knew you had it in you to be the better man.” 

“Oh, I don't know about that. But I do know that consuming memories of me is a terrible idea.” 

“Seconding that,” Erik interjected. At Psylocke's sidelong glance, he added, “You didn't see him the last time it happened. Trust me, it wasn't pretty.” 

Charles mock shuddered and took Psylocke's hand. To her credit, she didn't flinch, despite the chill that ran down her spine at the skin to skin contact. “Is it time to go? I'm bored.” 

Erik shook his head wistfully as they dematerialized, reforming on the familiar dirt and gravel path behind Charles' old home. “Some things never change.”

**Author's Note:**

> P.S There are a lot of years to fill in, before, after, and in between so hey, if you want to leave me a prompt or something you'd like to see, comment and maybe I'll write a drabble or two!


End file.
